The heart of a body composed by two men
by VoyeurOfUtterDestruction
Summary: A more romantic Sherlock fic,Christmas is affecting me. When the blood stains the sheets and his spine shakes from the coughs the heart will be there to support the brain. Sherlock Holmes is the brain,John Watson is the heart. Dedicated to the lovely tryingtowritefanfiction who was very very kind with me. I hope its not awfully out of character.M just to be sure


**9-1-2013 **

The case is now closed, trapped in a cardboard box in one of the yards damp basements.  
The memories still fresh,playing on the upper end of their spines. Their wounds still open, bleeding at the clean white sheets.

* * *

**12-13-2012**

A light chuckle echos in the dimmly lit room.  
"Can you feel it?" an extraordinary voice asks from atop the laying detective.  
It sounds as if the mouth of the speaker is restrained from something heavy, something made of sharp, rusty metal pieces,screws and leather straps.  
The sound of the hinges of the mask break the silence again.

"You disapoint me Mister Holmes. You disapoint me greatly." the unsettling voice continues. The bearer of it steps under the naked light bulb with his arms is showered in greenish technical light revealing all of his monstrosity like a painting of the crusified Jesus Christ.

Sherlock Holmes lets out a half hearted grunt. His face is already forming hideous bruises and is caked with fresh blood.

The criminal makes a graceful move of his lean arms, a move that could compete that of a prima ballerinas of the national ballet. He allows his arms to fall on his sides and he pushes the edge of a heavy baseball bat he is holding in his left hand up the detectives chest.  
"I never understood how baseball is played you know." he sais and giggles.

Sherlock snarls.  
"Now tell me again Mister Holmes. Can. You. Feel. It?" the criminal asks emphasizing the last words.

A bullet shreding the dirty warehouse window and then the back of the mans head. The bizzare wolf like metal mask clanging against the floor. The detectives scream. Everything happening within the blink of an eye.

John Watson could only stare. Sherlock spasmed on the floor just as the criminal fell harmless to the ground. The detective screamed in pain.  
John Watson ran.

On the surface of Sherlocks now bare chest lay the shards of what looked like a thin,transparent glass needle. The instrument had forced its way deep under the detectives skin as the criminal fell to the ground. Piercing organs that would soon cause his lungs to fill with blood and fluids. As the wolf had said before the doctor came. He would make Sherlock Holmes spit blood for the rest of his life.

Everything was over now, Lestrade had done his paperwork, the victims had all been burried... all except one, one damned to suffer. Watson would take good care of him.

* * *

**12-19-2012**

The bathtub is filled up with hot water. The formerly white sheets float. Blood has soaked them.  
Coughs can be heard from the stairs.  
Barts is so far away and now John Watson must run again.

Holmes stayed in the hospital for another 5 days. He was released with a warning. His body was weak, he would still spit blood for a long time, if he calms he will heal. He is in good hands. In his doctors hands.

**12-25-2012 Christmas, after all the guests have gone away.**

The worlds only consulting detective is better. He still spits blood but not the monstrous amounts of last time. Both residents of 221B Baker street have drunk more than they should.  
"You should be upstairs Sherlock,your health is still..." John stops. They both know. Sherlock nods.  
"Let me...let me umm help you with the stairs." John says supporting the taller mans weight as he helps him up the narrow staircase.  
"There, time for bed." he says and throws the detective a blanket. Sherlock coughs.  
"Wait John." he commands as John turns to leave. His eyes look straight towards the doctor.  
"I..." he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. John raises one eyebrow questioningly. Sherlock tries. He stands up and walks towards the shorter,older man. With a quick move he brushes his lips over the others cheeck. "Merry Christmas John Watson" he says and pulls back almost embarassed.  
John smiles. It felt warm and pleasant. "Merry Christmas Sherlock." he says and turns around again.  
Sherlock purses his lips for a second.  
He grabs John and pulls him close,his lips crash on the older mans with need. Not sure what need but fierce, unstopable,demanding need.  
John responds.

**12-26-2012 4am.**

They lay side by side with just a sheet to cover them. Sherlock is stroking Johns hair,his temple...he brushes his sensitive fingertips over the vein taking the pulse. His messy curls fall together with his heavy lashes and hide his clouded blue eyes.  
Violent coughs make him shake in Johns arms and spit blood against the sheets again.  
His spine shivering as the crisis goes.  
John keeps him close.  
He hates the wolf for what he's done.  
Sherlock looks up.

"It will go away soon..."he promises in a manner not at all like his usual character.  
And suddenly everything feels better, safer and a lot warmer inside of John Watson.  
The heart of a complex body composed by two men.


End file.
